Four Minutes
by CelestialFlower
Summary: What happens if they were to miss Enjolras by four minutes? Mostly Combeferre because I'm falling in love with him and rated because of bad things happening. Modern AU.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Hey guys. So this has been in my head for ages (and has been stopping me from updating my other fic, so sorry to those of you reading it) and I've been wanting to post it while at the same time completely hating it but I can't move on soooooo this is me just posting it even though I think it's terrible. Please please review and I shall probably edit and repost it sometime in the future incorporating any constructive criticism I get (if I get any) and other ideas I have. Also I'm thinking of writing a prequel to this, let me know if you want it. Thanks!_

Combeferre tapped his foot against the table leg in irritation. This went on for a few minutes and gradually increased in frequency and volume up until the point where Courfeyrac, who was sitting beside him, decided enough was enough and kicked his foot a little harder that he would have had he not a half empty bottle of wine in front of him.

"Ow!" Combeferre complained, snapping out of his reverie and turning to affix an icy glare upon his innocently smiling companion.

"What's with you 'Ferre?" Courfeyrac asked lazily. "Why aren't you enjoying the party?"

"Because" Combeferre gritted his teeth. "This is not a party, this is a meeting that was supposed to start an hour ago and _Enjolras still hasn't showed up_." He glared across the room again.

Courfeyrac, though not functioning at his best, could still understand that Combeferre's tone was largely due to worry for his friend but he didn't know why he was worried. Enjolras could take care of himself. "Well… have you tried calling him?"

Combeferre glared at him. "Of course I have, and he hasn't picked up or responded to my messages or-" His tone turned urgent and he turned imploringly to Courfeyrac. "What if something's happened and he needs our help and we're just _sitting_ here?!" He got up so suddenly he almost upended the table and stormed across the room to the door, ignoring Courfeyrac's feeble remonstrations from behind him. Acting on a whim, before he made it to the door, he veered off to one of the tables close to it. The one inhabited by a certain drunkard who was…. surprisingly sober. "Grantaire?"

"Yes?" Grantaire replied. "And before you ask, I only start drinking when Apollo gets here, hardly surprising this has never come up before but why is he not here yet?"

Combeferre sighed. Of course he only got drunk to annoy Enjolras. Not that he'd noticed, Enjolras was always the first to arrive. Except today. Still Grantaire was the most sober one here apart from himself and he did care about Enjolras. "I don't know, but I'm worried so I'm going to go to his apartment to check on him, care to join me?"

Grantaire's eyes widened slightly and he mutely nodded and stood up, following Combeferre out of the café and to his car.

The drive to Enjolras' apartment seemed to the two boys to take forever, but they had both managed to get themselves fairly worried by then and the two unanswered phone calls they made did not help.

Finally Combeferre pulled up to the curb outside Enjolras' apartment block and Grantaire didn't wait for the car to stop before jumping out and sprinting up the steps inside. Combeferre remained in the car a minute longer trying to calm himself and convince himself he was overreacting. Then he got out of the car and took the elevator up. Perhaps he should have told Grantaire it had been fixed. However when he stepped out on the 5th floor, the door to Enjolras' apartment was already open. He advanced, hesitatingly inside. He couldn't see anything unusual in the front room but where was-

"Combeferre!" He took a step back. That was Grantaire but he sounded...

"Oh no" Combeferre took off running down the hallway in the direction of the shout. Grantaire was framed against the doorway to the bathroom. Upon hearing Combeferre approach, he turned and glanced at him, horror and fear mingling on his face. Then he rushed into the room. Combeferre followed.

The first thing he saw was the blood. The red that stained the tiles, that soaked into his shoes as he walked. That covered Grantaire where he was huddled on the floor supporting… Enjolras. No. No no no. He was lying on the floor, his head in Grantaire's lap. Combeferre dropped to his knees beside him. He turned over his wrists and gasped as his fears were confirmed. He glanced, terrified at Grantaire who was carding his fingers through Enjolras' hair and muttering small comforting things he didn't believe while tears were silently running down his face. Combeferre then tore two strips of his shirt and bound them around Enjolras' wrists applying pressure holding them there but trying to be as gentle as he could. He was a second away from crying himself as he tried to process what he was seeing. Their fearless leader, marble statue soaked in such dark red it was almost black, his hair no longer blonde, his angelic features distorted by discomfort.

"Enjolras no why?" Combeferre whispered. Enjolras smiled weakly at him.

"I'm sorry 'Ferre" he said softly.

"No" Combeferre shook his head, tears starting to leak out of his eyes too. "You are not sorry and you are not going to die." He leaned forward and kissed his forehead before drawing his phone out of his pocket. "Keep pressure on his wrists" he told Grantaire and stepped out of the room to call for an ambulance leaving Grantaire alone with Enjolras in silence.

Grantaire took Enjolras' wrists, closed his eyes and began speaking in a soft voice. "I'm sorry. I am so sorry. If I had known, I would have, I thought that…"

"Grantaire." Enjolras cut him off. "You're not making any sense."

The cynic couldn't help a slight sad smile from creeping onto his lips. "I know. What I'm trying to say is, I should have been there for you and I wasn't and I will never be able to forgive myself for that. For abandoning you." He opened his eyes and they met those of the broken god in his arms.

Enjolras shook his head. "No Grantaire, what happened to me, is my problem, not yours, don't blame yourself."

Tears started making their way down Grantaire's cheeks again. "That is so like you. Always forgiving me, seeing the best in me even though I don't deserve it." He paused, looked up to the ceiling, took a breath and continued. "I know you can make it through but…." He took another moment to collect himself. "Just in case this is the end, I have to say, that Enjolras I-"

Combeferre walked back into the room and re-assumed his position on the floor. "The ambulance is on its way, you are going to be fine."

Enjolras shook his head. "Goodbye Combeferre" he said, his voice surprisingly clear.

Despite his better judgment, Combeferre reached out and grabbed his shoulders. "Don't say that, this is not goodbye." His voice was starting to take on a hysterical tone.

"Please". Finally Enjolras' expression changed. He looked so desperate and broken that Combeferre silently released his shoulders and sat back, still staring imploringly into his eyes. "Just say it".

Combeferre blinked and swallowed. "Goodbye" he said roughly. Enjolras looked satisfied. He shifted his gaze upwards seeking Grantaire's eyes.

"Goodbye Grantaire."

Grantaire let out a pent up sob. "Goodbye Apollo".

Enjolras' eyes slid closed and in the next second his chest fell not to rise again. Grantaire whimpered and buried his head in Enjolras' jacket, silent sobs wracking his body. Combeferre didn't move, he simply stared forward, at nothing, his expression painfully vacant. They would have stayed like that for hours had the ambulance not arrived a few minutes later.

Combeferre was numb as the paramedics took Enjolras from Grantaire's arms. He was numb on the way to the hospital. He was also numb in the waiting room, sitting there, unconscious of the blood that covered his and Grantaire's clothes.

Grantaire wasn't. Even though he knew he was being terribly stupid, he held on to Enjolras and it took three paramedics to finally convince him they couldn't help him if Grantaire didn't let go. They let him hold his hand on the way to the hospital though. Grantaire cried and shook sitting on the plastic chairs waiting for the verdict on Enjolras' life. If Combeferre couldn't feel anything, Grantaire felt enough for them both.

Combeferre made no move to comfort him. He couldn't acknowledge his pain because that might mean opening the door to his own. He was numb when a doctor told him they couldn't bring Enjolras back.

Both boys sat there for an hour, neither of them processing the time passing. Then Combeferre started speaking. "He was smart you know." His voice was flat. "Enjolras. He cut the long way. It would've taken four minutes." For the first time he turned towards Grantaire. "Four minutes. If we had arrived four minutes earlier…"

"I know" Grantaire interrupted calmly.

"What?" He wasn't a medical student, Combeferre thought, how could he know?

"I KNOW!" Grantaire yelled, also turning to face Combeferre. His voice was hoarse but not from yelling or alcohol like it normally was.

Oh. Combeferre knew he should say something, tell him he's sorry, he didn't know; but he didn't. He couldn't bring himself to. He took a breath. "We should tell the others."

"Yes" Grantaire agreed. He sighed. "Let's get it over with."

They both got up and walked out of the room, and out of the hospital. Combeferre took out his phone and texted Les Amis.

To: Joly, Bossuet, Courfeyrac, Jean, Bahorel, Feuilly,

_Something has happened. Be at the Café as soon as you can. _

Send.

Courfeyrac replied almost immediately.

'_Ferre it's almost 1am, what happened?_

1am. It couldn't be. Combeferre checked the time on his phone. It was. He didn't feel like he'd ever be tired again. That was alright. He'd never sleep. He didn't reply.

He hailed a taxi and he and Grantaire got in. They didn't speak on the way to the café, but what was there to say to each other? I'm sorry you've been through that? It would be true but Combeferre reasoned it would sound so fake it would be condescending.

Grantaire stared out the window as the taxi drove through the familiar streets but, if asked, he wouldn't have been able to say which city he was in.

When they arrived at the Musain, the rest of Les Amis were already there, talking in nervous confusion as to the purpose of this urgent gathering at such an irregular hour. They turned and fell silent as Grantaire and Combeferre entered.

Grantaire hesitated for a second before remembering. They mustn't look very ordinary, covered, as they were, in Enjolras' blood.

Joly was the first to get over his initial shock and the doctor in him took over. He rushed over to Combeferre first and, thinking it was his blood, started running his hands over his torso trying to find the source of the bleeding while interrogating the two of them. "What is it? What happened? Where are you hurt?"

Combeferre roughly pushed his hands away. "It's not mine" he said quietly. Joly stepped back, confusion outlining his features as he looked from Combeferre to Grantaire.

Courfeyrac meanwhile had noticed who was missing. One exchanged glance with Combeferre was all he needed to confirm his fear. "Oh no" he breathed. All eyes turned to him, except Combeferre's. He looked down at his feet, unwilling to meet his friend's eyes as he figured it out.

"Enjolras." Combeferre could only nod, still unwilling to look up, to see the reactions he knew he had caused, was causing.

Joy however, took Combeferre's arm and guided him into a chair where the others gathered round. Bahorel put his hand on Combeferre's shoulder. "What happened?" Jehan asked gently.

Combeferre took a breath and then: "Enjolras… he's dead."

A shocked silence prevailed.

"What?!" Bahorel spluttered.

Combeferre forced himself to keep going. "He killed himself, slashed his wrists. We were too late to save him, by four minutes. We watched him die."

Jean had started sobbing silently, Courfeyrac wordlessly pulled him into a hug letting him cry into his shoulder, looking himself as though he was only holding himself together through some supreme effort of will. Feuilly started pacing while Bahorel looked like he wanted to punch something.

Combeferre put his head down. He couldn't believe he was even in this situation.

Grantaire remained standing by the door watching as Combeferre slowly, haltingly recalled what had come to pass. He looked on as his friends received the news, he saw the raw pain and sadness and he couldn't deal with it. Unnoticed by everyone, he slipped out of the room. He couldn't bring himself to stay with the sight of his grief-stricken friends supporting each other

There was almost silence during the minutes that followed with everyone trying to come to terms with the news they had just received, until Joly lifted his head from where it had been against Bossuet's shoulder and started talking quietly, murmuring almost to himself. "But even if he had… that's still only four minutes, how could it be that they could have saved him if they had only gone to check on him _four minutes _earlier..."

Combeferre heard this. Tears filled his eyes again. Maybe Joly hadn't exactly said it but it was clear to him: his friends blamed him. And they had every right to.

He too, left the café. No one moved to stop him.

Combeferre was numb during Enjolras' funeral. He didn't speak when the others spoke, he didn't cry when the others cried. He sat there, trying to recreate the image of Enjolras that was being spoken of, trying to recreate the spark in his eyes and the passion in his voice, but he could only see their dullness and weakness in the last moments he spent with him. He was also trying to reconcile the version of his best friend that was being spoken of to the polished mahogany box on the altar.

He noticed Grantaire sitting at the back of the church. He didn't speak either. He just sat there. At one point Combeferre caught his eye, but he just looked away.

Grantaire arrived at the funeral late, slipping in at the back just before the doors closed. He sought out Combeferre at the front of the church in the pew reserved for Enjolras' closest friends. He met his eyes but Combeferre just looked away. Grantaire breathed in sharply and looked down at his lap where he was running the sharp edge of his nail across his thumb trying to suppress the tears forming again in his eyes. He was much too sober for this.

The ceremony ended. The rest of Les Amis stayed up by the altar after everyone except Grantaire left. They hugged each other and cried a bit more and placed reassuring hands on each other's shoulders and told each other things that were, Grantaire imagined, being too far away to make out the words, comforting.

Grantaire got out of his seat and took a step towards them, but hesitated. It wasn't his place to interrupt their perfect uncomplicated grief, he didn't belong. They could be sad because he was dead, but it was Grantaire's fault. He couldn't pretend to suffer the way they did. He turned and walked out of the church.

Combeferre rose awkwardly when the rest of his friends made their way to the altar after the funeral. They were supporting each other, expressing their love for one another. Combeferre hovered to one side, all but forgotten. He made some excuse or another and left. He never told them Grantaire had shown up.

It wasn't his place to be there. Maybe they didn't say it, but he knew he was blamed for what happened. He didn't belong with the innocent.

Almost in a trance, so unaware was he of his surroundings, Grantaire made his way home. He managed to open his door and walk over to sit on his bed before he finally lost it. If he thought he had been out of control at the hospital, it was nothing compared to what he felt alone, in his dark apartment, knowing that he had no one now, all his friends knew what he knew; it was his fault. He cried and he screamed and he repeated over and over that he was sorry and that he wished he had been there, that he wished he hadn't let any of it happen. At some point he ended up on the floor, at another his nails ended up digging into the soft flesh of his forearms, deep enough to draw blood. He didn't care, probably didn't notice.

Eventually his sobs were reduced to shuddering gasps and finally he fell silent. He lay there for what felt like hours, feeling the floor underneath him and the blood pounding in his ears. The last time Grantaire had been in an awful place, he hadn't been able to sleep. It got so bad that he had eventually gotten sleeping pills prescribed. He realized soon after that however, that alcohol worked just as well. He'd kept the pills though, stashed away in the back of bedside cabinet. Grantaire remembered this. He slowly got to his feet.

Combeferre was numb through Grantaire's funeral too.

If the other Amis were, it was because of shock. Only Combeferre knew why Grantaire had done it. It was the same reason he had for eying the syringes and pills at the hospital sometimes.

They were also in shock at the stark difference between the funerals of their friends. Whereas Enjolras' had been in a large church with soaring glass stained windows, full of all his friends, coworkers, relatives and two prim and proper aristocratic parents in their expensive Italian suits, his mother crying softly into a silk handkerchief, his father stony faced; Grantaire's funeral was in a small dingy church on the bad side of town. Les Amis were the only attendees.

There were no tears, there was only a question hanging in the air.

Combeferre knew that in Enjolras' absence, he was expected to take over Les Amis De L'Abaisse but he couldn't bring himself to. He knew it would never be the same. Perhaps he just didn't care anymore. He told the Amis as much, but that didn't stop them deciding to continue the meetings anyway. Joly, out of all of them, was the one to assume the mantle of leader. He would text Combeferre with the time of each meeting, but gave up eventually when it was clear Combeferre was not going to show up. Or reply.

Ostensibly Combeferre was coping. He was still studying to be a doctor, taking more shifts at the hospital than ever before and would smile and have a conversation with people he met or ran into.

That didn't stop him waking up screaming from nightmares almost every night. In his dreams, he saw both of them, Grantaire and Enjolras. They would yell at him that their deaths were Combeferre's fault, that it only he's _opened his eyes _he would have been able to save him. Then blood would start to seep into their clothes from hidden lacerations and their eyes would roll back and they would keep dying over and over again and their last words reminded him of what a horrible friend he had been and how he didn't deserve happiness because he stood back and let them be so agonizingly sad.

Months passed in this way.

It was Friday night. Les Amis were having another meeting, the fourth this week. It was two weeks until a protest, a big one. They were protesting the enforcement of the Defense of Marriage Act. It was an issue that was close to their hearts. They were expecting over three thousand people to participate and responsibility for it was entirely theirs. Needless to say, everyone was feeling more than a little stressed. Bahorel had tried to encourage his friends by giving a speech, but the room quickly fell silent again after he was finished. Perhaps he just didn't have the passion or the fervent belief in their cause that he would need to inspire anyone, or perhaps everyone was just too preoccupied thinking about the person who had both of those things.

"It's our fault you know." Jehan's soft voice broke the silence. The rest of the Amis turned to him, confusion in their eyes. "You know what I'm talking about and don't pretend we're not all thinking it!" Jehan's voice rose in pitch as the poet got more and more agitated.

The others glanced at each other but didn't say anything.

"Grantaire trusted us!" He shouted and stood up on his chair. "He only wanted us to be there for him! We were supposed to be his friends and we pushed him away. We…" He put his head in his hands and his shoulders started shaking with repressed sobs. Courfeyrac gently lifted his from the chair drew him into his arms, and kissed his forehead as Jehan cried into his shoulder like he had that fateful night almost a year earlier.

"He's right." Feuilly said, tonelessly. "We let him down." He glanced around the room. "All of us." The others muttered their assent.

The door of the back room opened, and a waitress stepped cautiously in. She had just started working at the Musain and hadn't yet been briefed as to the nature of the group that so often convened here. She cleared her throat nervously, causing everyone to look over at her as everyone turned towards here.

"Is-is there a Monsieur de Courfeyrac here?" She asked a little awkwardly.

"It's just Courfeyrac" the man in question replied stepping forward and smiling in an attempt to put her at ease.

She nodded and returned the smile slightly. "I was told to give you this" she told him, handing him a folded piece of paper. Courfeyrac thanked her and took it, a little bemusedly and the waitress smiled again and left.

Courfeyrac remained by the door as he turned the paper over.

'_Courfeyrac (and the rest of Les Amis)_

_-Combeferre_'

Courfeyrac slowly lifted his eyes to meet the others. "It's from Combeferre" he told them softly, disbelief and a small amount of fear evident on his usually charming features.

Silence prevailed over the back room of the Musain.

"Read it out."

Courfeyrac glanced at Joly before nodding.

"All right." He unfolded it, took a breath, and started to read.

'_Dear Friends_

_I am so so sorry. I truly am. I know that will never be enough but for what it's worth I hope you know that._

_I know it is my fault. All that happened. Enjolras, Grantaire, all of it. I was too blind to see what was happening and the truth is, I didn't want to open my eyes. I liked the comforting illusion that everything was alright, rather than make myself face an awkward reality. Now they are dead and I have no one to blame but myself. I thought for a while I was heartless, you probably did too. I felt like I couldn't behave like a normal human being and just be sad or guilty or whatever. I just, I couldn't handle it, any of it._

_But now I now that I was wrong. And I have found my breaking point. I'm sorry I failed, I'm sorry I lost them, I'm sorry I wasn't the best I should have been, and I'm sorry I abandoned you. I didn't guide you as was my place to do. I know you must hate me now, but I have to say that I still love you with all my soul._

_-Combeferre_'

Silence fell over the room again as everyone tried to make sense of what they'd heard. None of them could believe Combeferre had actually felt like this.

"He thinks we blame him." Bahorel didn't much care for silence.

"I don't blame him!" Feuilly burst out. "We should have let him know he couldn't have done anything instead of letting him believe he could have."

"He did push us away though" Joly countered. Noise in the room dissipated as everyone agreed to let it rest, at least for the moment.

"'With all my soul'..." Jehan mused quietly. "That's too poetic, not like Combeferre at all. I wonder why he said with all my… all my _soul!" _Of course!" He yelled jumping up. He turned urgently to Courfeyrac. "'Courf', Combeferre speaks French, English and…?"

"Spanish." Courfeyrac finished his eyes widened as he realized the full implication of what Jehan was saying. "Soul is _alma _in Spanish. Do you think….?"

Jehan nodded. "I'm convinced of it."

"Sorry" Bahorel interrupted, not sounding apologetic at all. "But what the hell are you two going on about?!"

"Pont de l'Alma!" Courfeyrac all but yelled in response. "Puente del Alma! It was a clue! The bridge!"

He looked around at the others and saw the comprehension dawn in their eyes.

"Oh no" Bossuet sighed. "This isn't good."

"What are we waiting for?" Was Feuilly's reaction. "Let's go!"

Courfeyrac and Jehan exchanged a glance and then ran for the door, followed closely by the other Amis.

When they burst out of the Alma – Marceau metro station, they could see the bridge, outlined in street lights reflected off the still waters of the Seine. As they got closer they could make out a lone figure standing in the middle of the bridge, his head bowed and his hands resting on the railing.

Courfeyrac raced ahead of the others and screamed Combeferre's name as he made it onto the bridge. Combeferre looked up at him where he had stopped just a few feet away.

He looked calmly at him. "You came."

"Weren't we supposed to?" Courfeyrac asked incredulously as the others joined him, all, with the exception of Bahorel, breathing heavily.

Combeferre started to respond, when Jehan, disregarding the distance Courfeyrac had intentionally placed between himself and Combeferre, barreled into the latter and hugged him, starting to cry again.

Combeferre stiffened slightly and then tentatively hugged him back. "You mean… you mean you forgive me?"

Courfeyrac started crying now too as he stepped forward to look Combeferre in the eye. "My friend, we never blamed you." Jehan released Combeferre and stepped back, nodding his agreement with his lover's words.

Combeferre finally, for the first time since the night he had seen his best friend die, started to cry , openly and brokenly. "But… I don't understand… it's my fault…. I let everything happen."

"No it's not, and you didn't" Joly put in firmly. "If there is to be blame, we must share it."

"We've missed you!" Bossuet blurted out. "At all of our meetings. We couldn't believe after what happened we-"

"We couldn't believe we had lost not only two, but three of us." Courfeyrac finished.

Combeferre looked around at each of them. His friends didn't hate them. He'd pushed them away, not the other way around.

"In that case" he said managing to smile slightly, "would you mind if I joined your revolution? There are two people whose memories I would like to honour."

Courfeyrac smiled widely and rushed forward to pull Combeferre into a hug, the others following suit. Combeferre finally allowed himself to lose control, his protective walls came crashing down and he broke down and sobbed in the comforting embrace of his friends.

The protest failed. There had been a huge turnout, but some people (not Les Amis) had smuggled in weapons, and it had turned violent. The police were sent in to enforce control as it had turned into a full scale riot.

However as Combeferre faced the police batons and tear gas and smoke bombs, he could almost feel Enjolras' and Grantaire's hands in his own. They would have loved to see this.


	2. Prequel

_A/N. This is a little shorter than the last but I hope it clears things up and this will wrap this story up. I am a bit sorry about it, I don't really know why I wrote it but I thank you for reading it and if you would like to kill me please do it in a review. Thanks._

**Six Months Before**

Combeferre

'_I suppose it's the not knowing that hurts the most. Even if I'm 99 percent sure, it's that one percent that is always going to make me come back. I just wish… well I wish I wouldn't have to always be disappointed, that promises would be kept by everyone, not just me but I know that's not going to happen, so I wish I could accept that, that I could give up fighting a useless battle. I don't know whether it's supposed to hurt, I just know that it does.'_

Combeferre started at the text on the screen, and then rapidly pressed backspace, deleting it all. Stupid. He didn't even know what he was writing or why. Combeferre took off his glasses and rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes, relishing the painful blackness for a second, before putting his glasses back on and minimizing the Word window. It was really time to get working on that assignment for his next class, he told himself, but was not annoyed for a distraction in the form of his cellphone beeping an incoming text alert. He got up from his desk and walked over to pick up his phone from where he had left it on his nightstand. As he did so, he passed the mirror he had leaning against the wall. He looked awful. He had circles under his eyes and looked like he hadn't shaved in days. Which he hadn't.

He had one new message. It was from Enjolras.

_Who thought Bordeaux would be this boring? I should be unpacking but hi. How's your assignment going? _

Combeferre smiled. Trust Enjolras to distract him by making him think about what he should be doing.

_Not very well, I can't seem to focus on it. How are you?_

They may as well have a conversation.

_Pretty good, I watched this really awesome movie on the plane but then the ending was sad and it made me want to die because I'm so sad too but then I just watched a happy one so it was alright._

Wow, Enjolras had gotten sad because of a film. And people said he was a marble statue.

_Well at least you have a system._

Combeferre realized he didn't really know how to respond.

_Yeah. Anyway I have to go, I'll see you at the meeting next Friday._

This was expected. Enjolras was in Bordeaux to do volunteer work, not sit around texting his friends.

_Okay, see you, do good work._

For someone who was supposed to be good at writing, he sure was awkward when it came to texting.

_Will do! x_

Combeferre put his phone down again and turned back to his computer.

Grantaire

The wind was icy cold and bit at exposed skin, like Grantaire's face and hands as he stood out on his balcony and leant over the rail, eyes wide open and watering. He was staring out over the city, the skyline illuminated against the blackness, the lights reflected in each other and the dark waters of the Seine. Grantaire loved Paris, truly he did. The sight of it just didn't help, not now.

He had been getting better, really he had been, he had been planning on taking his meds tomorrow like the doctor had been telling him for months. Then he had gotten the phone call. He thought he would never hear his voice ever again. But Enjolras had called him, had spoken to him, like equals, had called them friends. But Grantaire couldn't be, shouldn't be friends with someone such as his, he never deserved to even associate himself with the likes of that fine marble.

Grantaire stepped back from the railing and drew his sleeve up exposing the flesh of his left forearm, already dotted with think pink slashes. He remembered each one, the nights at least. But it was serious now. He closed his eyes briefly before pulling his blade from his pocket. He stretched his hand down, tautening the tendons in his wrist before sliding the blade across it, creating a pale groove that quickly filled in with blood. He stifled a gasp and closed his eyes, relishing the small amount of pain that flared and then faded. He made another two cuts in quick succession, the momentary heat from each dissipating ever more quickly. He stopped and resumed gazing out over the city lights. He didn't clean up immediately like he generally did, he stood there letting the blood run over his palm and drip from his empty fingers until eventually it clotted and he stood there, frozen until the gray light of dawn crept over the horizon and the lights turned off one by one.

Enjolras

'_So in conclusion…' _Um. Enjolras found himself forgetting what he was concluding again. Something about politics since it was for political science class but… he lifted his eyes from his laptop screen to glance at the clock at the wall: 11:23. Well it wasn't due for another week, he could just finish his essay tomorrow he decided, and saved his work before shutting down his computer. Ten minutes later saw him lying in bed closing his eyes. Two hours later saw him sitting upright again after lying there for that amount of time, unable to calm his racing mind and trying to remember that which he had forgotten; he wasn't sure, he just had this niggling feeling that should have done something. He flicked on the light to check the time. Look at that, it wasn't even yesterday anymore, it was now the 7th of July rather than the 6th, which he knew without checking because that had been the day that-

"Shit" he gasped and pulled aside his covers to jump out of bed and pull on a dressing gown before running out of his room. Yesterday was when he was expecting the answer from the grad school he'd applied to. He grabbed his keys and ran out of his apartment, down to the ground floor where the mailboxes where, silently bemoaning the fact that the elevator was still broken. Finding his mailbox in the dark was no easy feat but he managed and slid his key into the slot beside the plastic plaque bearing his name. It opened and... _yes _there it was, larger than the other letters, with an official looking crest stamped in the upper left hand corner. He grabbed the letters and didn't notice as the cover clanged shut for he was already walking away staring at the letter as though he could read its contents through the strength of his gaze alone. When he got back to his apartment he dumped all the letters on his desk, except the one he was most interested in (and the one, unnoticed by him, that slipped over the edge of the desk and fell under it) which he took to his bedroom with him. Discarding his dressing gown on the back of a chair he sat down on his bed and took a deep breath before opening the envelope and taking out the paper inside.

'_Dear M. Enjolras, we have received your application for a place in your school and must regretfully inform you that it-'_

Enjolras closed his eyes and let the paper fall from his fingers. _No._ He turned on his side and curled into the fetal position. _Not good enough. Never good enough. Why did he even try? _He dug his knuckles into his eyes, trying to keep the tears at bay. _So weak._

The rest of the night passed in brief periods of sleep and agonizing wakefulness. It wasn't until dawn however, that he finally gave up and let tears run down his face.

Combeferre

Combeferre arrived breathless at the Musain, ten minutes late, and dripping wet in the pouring rain. Perfect day for his car to break down he thought. He hurried into the back room, expecting harsh words from their leader, but instead had Joly rush towards him, fretting about him getting a cold, Feuilly offering a dry coat and no Enjolras. He didn't have to wonder about his whereabouts, for less than a minute later, the man himself swept into the room apologizing for his lateness. Grantaire half rose from his table in the corner, looking at him with what seemed like hope, but if Enjolras noticed, he didn't let on. Combeferre noticed this fresh rebuke left the cynic looking more disappointed than usual, but he also noticed the dark circles under the perpetrator's eyes. Enjolras clearly had decided something else was more important than sleeping again. How Combeferre wished he didn't have to add that last part.

"Right" their leader started "so let's get started with-"

"Hang on" Courfeyrac interrupted. "You told us that you and 'Ferre were going to get your letters from that grad school yesterday."

"And?" Enjolras arched an eyebrow disdainfully.

"And" Combeferre continued, refusing to be deterred, "did you get in?"

Enjolras glared at him for a second, before looking down, "no."

"No?!" Combeferre couldn't believe his ears. "But-but."

"What about you 'Ferre?" Bahorel leaned towards him "did you get in?"

"I-" Combeferre swallowed and also looked down before whispering, as though he didn't want anyone to hear, "yes." This didn't make any sense, Enjolras was well _Enjolras. _How could he have been rejected by the school when Combeferre himself had been deemed good enough for it?

Combeferre glanced up to meet Enjolras' eyes. They were stormy with an emotion Combeferre almost took for hate, but if it wasn't, than what was it? He was then distracted by the flurry of his congratulatory friends so that when his eyes sought his best friend's again, he was disappointed; Enjolras was gone.

Grantaire

So that was it. That was his answer. Clearly his life meant nothing. Everyone would be better off without him. Especially Enjolras. He had made that clear tonight.

Grantaire's mind was not a happy place at that moment when he was driving home after the meeting. It was however, clear. He had decided. So, when he saw the a jackknifed truck obstructing the road ahead of him, he accelerated.

He woke up in hospital three days later with a concussion and three fractured ribs. He was lucky, that's what they told him. He didn't feel lucky. He felt broken.

He didn't tell his friends, well Enjolras knew of course, but he had made his opinion very clear. Grantaire wondered if he could see how much he was hurting him. Feeling worthless had never made Grantaire so depressed.

Enjolras

He was awake. The glowing LED lights on his new bedside clock seem to mock him. 1:09. He sighed. He had gone to bed three hours ago. He surrendered himself to his thoughts for the rest of the night.

Months passed in this way.

"Enjolras, this has to stop." Enjolras only just managed to keep his composure at the tone of his voice.

"You haven't handed in assignments for over a month. You're failing all your classes. _Are you even listening to me?"_

Enjolras forced himself to meet his professor's eyes and pinched the delicate skin under his thumb to keep the tears from his eyes.

"Of course" he replied coolly.

"Enjolras what is going on?" He sounded more exasperated than concerned. "You used to be the top of the class and now it's like you don't care anymore."

"That's because I don't care." Enjolras lied, keeping a calm expression. "I have already graduated, what do my grades matter?"

"They matter because you are worth more than this" his professor hissed, slamming the flat of his hand on the wooden desk separating the two.

"I think you'll find I'm not. May I go now?" Enjolras asked coldly.

His professor leaned back and sighed. "Yes, yes I suppose that's it, alright." He waved an airy hand in both resignation and farewell as his once prized student left his office for what he was sure was the last time.

**Two Days Before**

Combeferre

Things were not going the way they were supposed to. Enjolras was late to another meeting, these days, he was late more often than not, and from a medical standpoint, Combeferre didn't like the permanent shadows under his eyes and the hollowing of his cheeks that had become paler and paler with the passing months. Enjolras had never really paid much attention to the needs of his body, but Combeferre could tell he had not been eating or sleeping enough. What made it worse is Combeferre could remember a time when Enjolras would always be early, when they would talk, when they would trust each other. Now they were drifting apart, slowly but surely and there was nothing Combeferre could do but stand there and watch.

As he was doing when Enjolras finished his speech and collapsed into his chair to open up his laptop. Joly however, walked up to him and sat down next to him.

"Enjolras" their leader looked up. Joly looked a little uncomfortable. "Well I- that is to say _we _have noticed that you look very run down as of late and we thought maybe should take a break."

"Take a break?" Enjolras' eyebrows all but disappeared into his hairline.

"Yes" Courfeyrac supplied. "From the Amis. Combeferre could take over until you're back to normal." All eyes in the room turned to Combeferre. He cleared his throat nervously.

"Um… yes. I suppose I could do that if.." He looked up at Enjolras, almost for permission to continue speaking (or being in the room).

"If that's what you prefer" he replied coldly, his normally light eyes darkened. He started to pack up his laptop to leave.

"Wait!" Combeferre cried. "I- I have an idea. How about we schedule a meeting for the 8th of the December? That's two days in which we can think and decide then."

Enjolras gave a curt nod and left the room. The others also agreed and settled back down to their various conversations leaving Combeferre to his thoughts. '_Was that the right decision? Does Enjolras hate me now? I couldn't be the leader; he'd never talk to me again.' _

Combeferre decided to just go home, he'd finish that report and then think about it when he wasn't so worked up. He bid the others a good night and walked out.

Enjolras

He didn't even make it to his bedroom. He collapsed onto the floor in the room that served as his study room and started sobbing. The last few months had made him much more open to doing that. He vaguely remembers a time when he would rather stab himself in the eye than break down as he was doing now. He told himself that his friends hated him, obviously, he knew eventually they would see him as he sees himself. They didn't want to be around him and _'Ferre_. He started sobbing harder thinking of his former best friend, the action wracking his frail body. Eventually he managed to get himself under control but lay there a few minutes longer. As he was about to get up, he noticed a square of white from under his desk. He sat up and extracted it. It was a letter addressed to him. He flipped it over. It was from Grantaire. His eyes widened at the name, how long ago had this been sent?

He started to open it, and then stopped. He didn't want to even think about them now. Besides, what could Grantaire have to say to him that he'd want to read?

He put it on his desk to read when he felt up to it and walked to his bedroom to settle himself for what he felt sure was going to be another sleepless night.

Grantaire

How he hated hangovers. Every time he would tell himself he'd never drink again only to find himself with his head over the toilet less than a month later, often less than a week later. He did feel like he had an excuse. If Enjolras left the Amis, then so would he. In fact there was nothing to suggest Enjolras would keep in contact with him at all, so he would lose him completely. And he would not be able to bear that. So yes, he was incredibly sorry if anyone blamed him for getting wasted after the meeting last night. Not thinking was good. Very good.

He decided to paint. He often painted when he felt sad, which would explain why the walls of his studio were covered in canvases depicting everything from scenes of Paris to portraits of certain blonde revolutionaries. And that of course means there were paintings of Paris in the rain and portraits of Enjolras.

And so the day passed amiably, simply because Grantaire ignored his fear and sadness and let his brush do the thinking for him.

Combeferre

He was overthinking this. Enjolras was clearly in a rough patch, some time off would do him good and everything would be back to normal before he knew it. This was the thought that sent him drifting off to sleep on the eve of the meeting that would forever decide the fate of Les Amis De L'Abaisse.

Enjolras

He opened his eyes to sun streaming in through the window. Today is judgment day he told himself. Then he told himself to stop being so dramatic and just get up. He did. It was 12:30 and it occurred to him that he was already late for the 12 o'clock meeting. It also occurred to him that he didn't particularly care. He dressed and was almost ready to leave, he just had to grab his keys off his desk and… _oh. _He had forgotten Grantaire's letter. He decided he should read it now so that he could talk about it if with Grantaire if he needed to at the meeting. He picked it up, sat down in his desk chair and opened it, unfolding the paper to read:

_6__th__ July _

_Dear Enjolras_

_I am terribly sorry to be writing this to you but I am afraid I am giving up. It seems melodramatic to say this but I feel worthless all the time and you are the only one whom I believe can make me believe in myself again. I know we have never gotten on, but there is a meeting tomorrow, and if you value my existence at all please let me know. I never meant to dump anything on you but I just want some assurance that not everyone hates me and would be happier without me in their lives. Especially you. I don't know what I'd do if you ignore me again tomorrow like you always do. I just need to know I mean something to you._

_-Grantaire._

Enjolras crushed the paper in his hand. He had sent this months ago and Enjolras didn't know. He must have ignored him just out of habit and didn't notice that he needed him. Thank god he didn't try something but… what if he had? Would Enjolras know? He never even _talked _to the drunkard. He needed him and he'd failed him. His friends were right, he was a worthless leader if he couldn't even look after his own followers. Grantaire could have died and it would have been all _his fault_.

His shoulders started to shake with suppressed sobs and he sank into his chair and put his hands over his face. He was worthless at everything. He had been hurting Grantaire without even knowing it. He was almost the reason for his death. He would be so much better off without him, they all would be. They didn't care about him, they wouldn't miss him. They would probably be happier without him. He was completely obsolete now the group had a new leader.

He managed to get his sobs under control before walking into his bathroom and opening up the medical cupboard to dig out a blade he'd put there years before to hide from someone he's once known.


End file.
